


prologue

by arromanches (jehanne)



Series: last days of summer 'verse [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3580404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanne/pseuds/arromanches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which nix can finally breathe again</p>
            </blockquote>





	prologue

**Author's Note:**

> okay so somehow this post mitmandlen.tumblr.com/post/113186295308) turned into this post (mitmandlen.tumblr.com/post/113343114483) which turned into this prologue of sorts. once i can get some proper planning done this 'verse'll start for real, nice and well-paced and in the present tense. this is utterly unpolished but it does provide a wee bit of background~~

Lewis Nixon wouldn’t be caught dead admitting that spending the summer in the middle of Nowheresville Pennsylvania is the one thing in life he treasures the most, and would most likely probably even die for (or at least would risk a hell of a lot).  Nine months out of the year meant boarding schools and blazers and breaks spent hopping trains around Europe, trying to avoid familial responsibilities and consuming entirely too much alcohol.  But summer- summer meant Lancaster and slowness, sunlight and warmth and fresh air. Most of all, it meant his two best friends.  

And now, stretched out before him, lay his last summer.   _Their_  last summer, before they all headed off to college in the fall.  He tries to push that fact out of his mind as he steps out of the cab in front of his grandparents’ house.  Out of all the expensive hotel rooms and drafty boarding school dorms he’s inhabited over the years, nothing has ever felt so wholly like home more than Margaret and Franklin Nixon’s small white a-frame.   

He unpacks with the muffled sound of his grandmother’s record player spinning out Kate Smith at the bottom of the stairs, opening the windows to let in the sweet, leafy backyard air.  It was only a matter of time before Harry would come bounding up the steps of the front porch and pull open the old screen door, and before Dick would follow a bit more reservedly, yet still just as happy to see him.

Dick, still skinny as a string-bean after all these years but surprisingly strong, would tower in the doorway and nearly have to duck his head.  At seventeen he was the paragon of better judgment that Nix’s grandparents could only dream of, carrying himself with the respectability of someone decades older.  Harry and Nix knew that Dick could be wicked though (or at least as wicked as someone like Dick Winters could really get), bitingly sarcastic and unwilling to follow authority when he believed it unreasonable.  

 _A bundle of pure energ_ y seemed the most positive way to describe Harry Welsh, though Nix and Dick usually found that other more colorful adjectives were needed.  Firebrand, hellion, and rapscallion- now  _thos_ e fit.  With his height and a mop of curly ash-blond hair, Harry was often mistaken for someone younger.  Just shy of seventeen, he’d somehow managed to graduate early on a combination of smarts, charm, and sheer force of will, or really unwillingness, to be left in high school by his college bound-friends.  

And then there was Nix, he of the rumpled clothes and perpetually-packed bags, dog-eared paperbacks stuffed in his back pockets.  They teased him about being a city boy and he them, about being country bumpkins ( _You wish you were as cool as us_ , Harry would taunt, and Dick would smile in half-agreement). The three of them couldn’t have been more different, and yet their strange little constellation worked perfectly.  

Nix pulls out another t-shirt from the olive drab duffel on the bed, smiling to himself, in spite of himself, over the way the first day of the summer always feels.  Like a fluttering in his stomach, a little jump in his chest.  As he’s zipping up the bag, the sound of the screen door slams and a familiar voice echoes up the stairs.

_“NIX!”_

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to check out my /fic-talk and /last-days-of-summer-%27verse tags for more ramblings/eventual graphics/etc


End file.
